


Absolution

by Dark and Stormy (betagyre)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angry Sex, Blasphemy, Church Sex, Dom Anders (Dragon Age), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, I'm Going to Hell, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Hawke, Thedas' Most Bangable, Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/Dark%20and%20Stormy
Summary: Hawke cannot get an audience with the Grand Cleric, leaving Anders frustrated—and Hawke very suspicious. They retreat to a side room, where she demands, furiously, to know what he is up to.Hello Vengeance!Hawke is shocked and livid, but there’s something thrillingly wrong about being taken hard by a possessed revolutionary mage right in front of a statue of Andraste, and perhaps defiling the Chantry this way might be just what Anders and Justice/Vengeance need to do to sate their anger.





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say I'm sorry for this, but... I'm not at all.
> 
> The Hawke in this story has the same name as the Hawkes in all my Dragon Age Hawke/Anders fics, but those fics all exist in separate continuities. This one is actually meant to be fully AU, as you shall see. It's just that in my mind, any Hawke of mine who is with Anders has this name and this character class.

The Grand Cleric was unavailable. The Knight-Commander, the Prince of Starkhaven, the Comte de Launcet, and the First Enchanter were all arguing heatedly with her right in front of the high altar, and even the Champion of Kirkwall could not cut in, especially since she did not actually have anything to say to the high priest and did not particularly want to involve herself in yet another debate about mages, especially with her most truculent companion involved in the debate. She was already extremely angry about being asked to do this in the first place, including with herself for giving in without having all the information.

They did not even have the decency to take it to a private office—or perhaps Her Grace had hoped that they would feel shame if members of the public witnessed this. No such luck. If anything, the noise got louder as Caitlyn Hawke, apostate mage and controversial Champion, approached the high priest.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Grand Cleric Elthina said, her voice truly apologetic. “I do not know when I will be able to speak with you… unless this is urgent?” She seemed hopeful that it might be urgent.

“It’s not urgent,” Caitlyn said brusquely, though she gave the priest a nod of respect. She had her issues with this woman, who wanted to keep peace without actually doing anything to remove the person—she caught Meredith giving her a disapproving glower—most responsible for threatening peace. However, despite that, she was so irritated right now that she just wanted to be away from this.

 _That’s how pissed off at Anders that I am right now,_ she thought as she walked away from the group. _I’d rather another unproductive mage debate continue than enable whatever in the Void he is doing that he won’t tell me._ She did not know what it was, but it couldn’t be good. He always told her everything. That he _wouldn’t_ could only mean that he was doing something from which he wanted to protect her.

She located him quickly enough. He was glowering and fuming in one of the corridors, clutching his staff as if he wanted to use it as a battering ram against some of the holy vessels. _–Which he probably does,_ she thought.

He breathed deeply as she approached, clearly holding immense anger in check. “I don't suppose you got her away from those idiots?”

“No,” she snapped.

“You could have tried harder.”

Outrage flooded her. “How dare you?” she hissed. “Why should I make any more effort for _you_ than you have made for me? You won’t even tell me what you’re going to do!”

“Apparently, I’m not going to do anything. Today,” he added darkly. He grabbed her forearm aggressively and began to walk out of the nave, almost dragging her behind him.

She knew it was bold to use magic in the Chantry itself, but she was not going to tolerate this treatment. Anders was usually extremely gentle and tender with her, as one would expect from a healer, but she had seen this other side on occasion—though not directed at her. And it usually presaged something that she _really_ did not want to occur in the Chantry, something rather more dangerous to them than magic in this venue. She cast a kinetic spell at him, making him slam against an invisible barrier, breaking his grip on her wrist. He whirled around to face her.

“Get control of yourself,” she said in a threatening undertone, “and don’t you dare grab me as if you’re a Templar bringing in an apostate.” That particular choice of words ought to shock him out of this crass behavior, Caitlyn thought confidently.

However, being compared to a Templar only seemed to heighten his anger. She was pretty sure she saw a flash of unearthly light blue in his brown eyes for a moment. He took another deep breath, gazed from left to right, and quickly darted into one of the side rooms. She was tempted for a moment to shut the doors and lock him in there until this passed, but if Justice made an appearance, that could end very badly for everyone—and she was the only person who could ever talk Justice down. Though it felt ominous, Caitlyn followed him into the room and bolted the doors behind her, leaving them in pitch blackness.

She knew in the back of her mind that people could still get in if they were determined, and they could certainly still hear if this turned into a shouting match. However, the heavy doors should muffle _some_ of the sound, and at least no one could see now. These little rooms were usually closed anyway, so no one would expect the doors to be open. In the darkness, she heard Anders’ breathing nearby.

Another blue flash pierced the darkness, and Caitlyn realized that she had better do something. She cast a simple illumination spell, lighting up the globe on the end of her staff with a yellowish light. In this small space, it provided enough light that they could see each other and everything in the room. Behind a set of protective barrier chains, a smaller statue of Andraste overlooked an unused altar. Caitlyn rested her staff against the corner of the room to her right, next to the door.

“All right,” she said, attempting to keep her voice calm and reasonable, “let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to involve you.”

“You _already have_ involved me!” she exclaimed. “And I don’t really care what you want right now, Anders. _I_ want you to tell me just what in the Void you’re planning.” A dark suspicion filled her mind, memories of an unpleasant job from several years ago, before she was named Champion. “Are you planning to set off that Qunari poison gas in here, to addle the brains of your supposed enemies?”

“No.” He turned aside and slumped over the altar, palms flat on the surface of it, glaring downward.

Caitlyn waited for him to explain further, but he said nothing. Anger rose in her once more. “That’s all you have to say to me? ‘No’?” She stormed forward, grabbing him by the shoulder as the heat of frustration filled her body. “You are going to talk to me, and that’s that! You haven’t been right at all—talking all the time about death and doom, giving things away.”

“I warned you that it was a mistake to care about me.”

“Well, I do, so you have to deal with it—and I _know_ something is up. I wouldn’t even be sure that you ever come home at night if your Grey Warden nightmares didn’t wake me up! I’m asleep when you come in and you’re back at the clinic by the time I get up in the morning! Something has been wrong with you lately, I’d guess whatever it is that you’re planning—whatever you wanted to do here today—and you’re _going_ to confess it to me!” She glanced at the statue of the Prophet and added, wryly, “It’s an appropriate place to make a confession.”

He stiffened, still gazing ahead across the altar, his back turned to her. Seconds passed, and he was utterly silent.

 _“Look at me!”_ She reached for his shoulder to force him around.

He wouldn’t budge, and she couldn’t make him with just the mundane physical force of her muscles. He was stubbornly resolute, immovable—and, Caitlyn suddenly thought, physically stronger than she was even though she knew she was the more powerful mage—but then he whirled around to face her.

Her heart momentarily failed her at the sight before her. His eyes were blazing bluish-white with the presence of the Fade spirit, and the light extended and crackled under his skin. His eyebrows bent low, almost meeting at his nose. Caitlyn had never seen him this angry before except when they were fighting someone—

“An appropriate place to make a confession,” drawled Justice— _Vengeance?_ Caitlyn wondered. But no, Justice/Vengeance didn’t _drawl._ And that was still Anders’ own voice….

“Whom am I talking to?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky, but she attempted to project confidence and calm.

“You know you are always talking to both of us. I’ve explained this.”

“I’ve never seen you look like this while speaking with your own voice, Anders. What’s going on?”

He did not answer. It was impossible to tell exactly where his gaze was focused while his eyes were like this, which was part of what made it so unnerving and even frightening, but Caitlyn was pretty sure that he looked at the corner where her staff leaned against the wall. The warm yellowish light it gave off was now mingled with the cold light of the Fade that radiated from his eyes. His dark smile broadened, and in the next second, he reached for his own staff.

Caitlyn knew what he was capable of while the spirit was controlling him, so she did not think twice. Summoning all of her magical power, she cast a stunning spell at him. He stiffened for a moment, but instantly threw off the effect before she could get her staff in hand to cast a more powerful spell. Wielding his staff, he returned the very one she had just used on him.

She was thrown backward about a foot and forced against the wall with a soft thud. It was just strong enough to pin her in place, leaving her unable even to move her arms, but not strong enough to hurt her from the impact or even knock her head against the wall from recoil. _They really must be sharing control,_ she thought in a panic. _Anders wouldn’t want to hurt me…._ He advanced on her and grabbed her around the waist with his free hand, pushing her—almost shoving her—toward the altar that stood at the feet of Andraste.

“Stop this!” she exclaimed, trying to remember to keep her voice down. The thing she had wanted to prevent had happened anyway, and it would be an unthinkable disaster if anyone caught him doing—whatever he intended to do—while obviously possessed by a spirit. _Or demon,_ she thought. This seemed far too much like a Vengeance mood to her. She hadn’t committed an injustice against him, after all… Justice, _as_ Justice, would have no reason to act against _her…._

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, still using the human voice that was so achingly familiar to her. He illuminated the end of his staff like she had done with hers, but his glowed greenish-white, like Veilfire. His eyes still blazing blue, he set his staff aside, resting it against the altar, and grabbed her shoulders with both of his hands, lifting her up and setting her down on the altar.

Caitlyn had never been the most devout person, but it seemed… wrong… to be _sitting_ on a holy altar, even one that had been put into a storage room. And it was even more wrong to be gazing into the eyes of a Fade spirit while doing so.

“Anders,” she said, “what are you doing?” She still hoped to calm him down by being calm herself. “You should let me down. I don’t know what’s gotten into you—”

“I was not able to do what I _wanted_ to do,” he replied, his voice tight, dark, menacing—but still _his voice._ It was unnerving to hear his voice issue from his mouth while those _eyes_ bore into her. That could only mean that this was not something she could blame on Justice. Anders was _allowing_ this, she realized. He was truly sharing control.

“My plans were thwarted, because _you_ didn’t have nerve enough to demand that the Grand Cleric speak to you,” he continued. “So I think I’m going to take it out of you now.”

 _That’s definitely Vengeance,_ she realized. With that, her resolution to stay calm evaporated. “Is that so?” she snarled, struggling. She tried to raise her right arm to shove him away, but he saw it and grabbed it, pinning it—and then her left arm—to her sides.

“It’s so.” He pushed her back against the golden statue of Andraste, leaning over the altar and bending her backwards as he descended toward her. Her gaze quickly darted upward and to one side, and she realized, suddenly, that he had her in a near replica of the position that the sculptor had formed the Prophet—arms down, one by each side, facing outward. The main difference was that Andraste bore a sword and Hawke was unarmed. He paused for a moment, his eyes seeming to dart between her form and the statue, though again it was hard to be certain—at least until he smirked. That confirmed it to her. He had done this on purpose. He wanted her to resemble Andraste, just an Andraste who was no match for a spirit of Vengeance in the body of a mage.

She barely had time to process her own indignation when his mouth—and teeth!—made contact with her earlobe. Despite herself, Caitlyn let out a hiss of pleasure. She heard him chuckle darkly right next to her ear as he nipped and licked down her jawline, finally biting her lips hard, though not hard enough to break the skin. He pulled away from her and stared at her, eyes still flaming white, lightning-bolt crackles of Fade fire still flashing beneath his skin.

“There,” she said, though it was starting to be a struggle for her to tell him to stop. The familiar feeling of lust was overtaking her. “You’ve ‘taken it out of me.’ Now let’s—”

“Oh no I haven’t.” Gripping her shoulders tightly, almost roughly, he shoved her down backward on the altar. Her back made contact with the metal surface.

She struggled to get up again, but he kept her pinned. “This is not appropriate,” she protested, swinging her legs toward the side of the altar to try to slide down and knock him off his feet.

“That’s why I’m doing it,” he replied. He moved his left hand to her chest, just below her bosom, and pressed her against the altar with it while he used his other arm to lift her legs back up. Ignoring her protests, he climbed atop the altar himself, mounting her, one leg on either side of her so that she could not move.

Caitlyn was increasingly indignant about this—especially now that she realized just how far he intended to take it—and it was a struggle for her to keep her voice down and keep from blasting him with a spell. The problem was, when the spirit was controlling him, even only in part, it gave him much deeper magical reserves than he had otherwise. Without her staff—she glanced longingly at the corner, where it continued to glow—she simply was not a match for Anders _and_ Justice/Vengeance together. She knew it. Without her staff, she was almost helpless against them together since he _did_ have a staff just a foot away. He… _they…_ could do anything to her. And… somehow… _Maker forgive me, but that excites me,_ she realized. She was usually the stronger one, the more powerful mage, the battlemage, the leader… and this change of pace was very exciting.

But still. She _did_ have another weapon, her power to persuade.

“Listen to me,” she hissed as he opened the fasteners on his coat. The feathered mantle tickled her, which did not help her resolve. A breath of lust caught in her chest at the touch. “If we get caught doing this, we’ll both be locked in the cells. Or the Gallows.”

“You say that like they are different,” said Anders cockily. “But that is why we won’t get caught.” He reached for the hem of her robes and pulled it upward.

Despite the growing feeling of desire, Caitlyn gave it one last chance, pushing against his chest with her hands, trying to wriggle out from under him. She almost managed it this time, surprising him. However, his staff was right there, leaning against the altar. He grabbed it and extinguished the greenish Fade light that emanated from it, dimming the room, leaving her with the warm light of her staff behind her in the corner and the unearthly glow of Vengeance right in front of her. Right on top of her. He took her wrists and pulled her hands above her head, casting a spell to pin them in place. As she huffed— _or panted in desire?_ she thought—he moved back and gazed at her hungrily, his icy eyes bearing into her.

 _“The first of the Maker’s children,”_ he said pointedly, glaring at her with blue-blazing eyes as she gulped, _“watched across the Veil and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not….”_

Her eyes popped wide open. She knew how the Chant of Light went. She knew what he was about to do before he did it.

 _“_ … _touch.”_

He shoved his hand aggressively under her smallclothes. Caitlyn muffled a scream as his hand stroked her inner thigh, the juncture of her hips with her legs, and, briefly, her center. She had been attempting to ignore just how much desire had pooled between her legs, to not think about it, but it was impossible for her to ignore now. He smiled as he dipped his fingertips into her folds.

With her arms bound above her head, he knew that he could move down, and he did. _“Here lies the abyss,”_ he intoned. She could actually feel his breathing right next to her core.

“The abyss?” she managed to choke out. “Is that what it is? That’s rather… insulting… when you think about it.”

 _“From these emerald waters doth life begin anew,”_ he replied tauntingly.

Caitlyn closed her eyes. This was absurd. He—actively possessed by a spirit, or _demon—_ was feeling her up on an altar while blaspheming the Chant of Light, because he needed to act out some sort of revenge fantasy against her or the Chantry or all of society at once. It was _absurd—_

All such thoughts fled her mind when one, two, three of his fingers slipped inside her, and he buried his tongue between her folds. She hissed and thrashed beneath him, pressing her thighs against his head to hold him in place, trying to feel his tongue and fingers as deeply as possible as he lapped her sea of desire and slid his fingers back and forth, his thumb rubbing her clit tormentingly, bringing her suddenly, jarringly close—

He removed his hand and mouth at once, trailing slick desire in his wake down her thighs, leaving her unsatisfied and aching.

“You bastard,” she hissed as he pointedly licked his fingers in front of her. “You really _are_ Vengeance.” She struggled to rise up, to touch him, but he backed away, keeping her pressed against the altar with the palms of his hands and denying her all contact except that and the tease of his knees pinning her in place.

“That wasn’t very nice, love. Nor… if you _are_ talking to a spirit of Vengeance—”

“And I am.”

“—very wise.” He bent down again, giving her a moment of relief as he pressed himself flush with her. She struggled hard against the magical spell he had used to bind her hands above her head. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her deeply, her lips parting at the contact, making her taste herself in his mouth. He nipped once again at her lips, pain and pleasure mingling together.

Caitlyn finally managed to dispel the magic that was holding her wrists in place. With a gasp, she threaded her hands into his hair, surprising him, but he did not object or attempt to bind them again. Even though his eyes were still possessed, they seemed to be less bright—and there were definitely fewer lightning flashes of the Fade beneath his skin. His facial features were softened too, his eyebrows normal and not curved in anger, his muscles no longer tensed. She breathed deeply through her nose as she tangled handfuls of hair between her fingers, holding his head in place, as close as she possibly could. He let out a brief moan and deepened the kiss so strongly that it felt like he was trying to meld with her. She arched her hips up to feel the hard outline that she was absolutely certain had to be there—and was. He let out another, more guttural moan at that, which sent shudders of need through her just to hear it. _Relief,_ she thought. _Blessed relief…._

_Blessed…._

The reality that she was still lying atop a sacred altar slammed into her. To her right, Andraste peered ahead with blank golden eyes, seeming to gaze with renunciation at the defilement of her altar by two apostate mages, one of them possessed by a spirit. To her left, the bolted doors of the Chantry were visible in the mix of warm and cold magic-light.

For a short time, while they kissed and she had been free to pull him close, she had almost been able to forget the spirit blazing through his eyes. This was just Anders and they were just making love, or about to. But now the reality of their situation filled all the corners of her mind once again, and he seemed to have the same realization. The light that suffused his eyes blazed vividly bright again, his facial muscles tensed, and his eyebrows drew together darkly.

He grabbed her wrists once again and pulled her arms apart to each side, whispering spells to bind each of them underneath the altar. He gazed at her for a moment, as if a conqueror surveying his bounty, and in the next moment he opened the buttons of her robe. It was quick work. She felt the cool air against her exposed chest as he threw each flap open.

 _“Then did I see the world spread before me,”_ he said, gazing greedily at her.

He was quoting—blaspheming—the Chant of Light again, she realized.

_“Sky-reaching mountains arrayed as a crown…”_

He descended once more, taking her left nipple between his lips. She muffled yet another scream and struggled again to free her arms, but she could tell that he had used the same strength of spell as before, just on each arm alone, making it harder for her to overcome. At least, she thought so, to the extent she could think anything while he was rolling his tongue over her sensitive nipple—and then pulled away, leaving it wet and suddenly, delightfully, cold in the air as he moved on to her right nipple.

With a sucking motion, he pulled away from her right nipple, making it harden instantly in the cool air. He breathed deeply, raggedly, and for a moment the Fade-light in his eyes dimmed again, but only a moment. _“Kingdoms like jewels, glittering gemstones…”_ He slid his hand under her smallclothes again.

She gasped as his fingers slipped past the utterly soaked fabric and dipped into her core. _“Anders!”_ she hissed, trying to keep her voice quiet but heated. “Stop it now!”

He paused, regarding her with what she supposed would have been a skeptical look if she had been able to see his own eyes. Who _was_ in control? Or was the bond such a perfect merging now that they really could share control if they wanted? That was… a victory, of sorts… she supposed….

“Stop it or finish me,” she said meekly, partially ashamed, partially emboldened and excited by the wrongness of it.

“Thought so.” His tone was utterly insufferable, and _that_ was very much her Anders.

But only for a second. In the next, he had leaned over, his mouth pressed against her neck, uttering sweet blasphemies once more. _“Strung across the earth as a necklace of….”_ He murmured against her skin as his fingers slipped in and out of her, sliding down her slit—

 _“_ … _pearl.”_

He rolled his thumb against _hers._

A sudden climax ripped across her body. For a moment she was unable to keep from uttering a piercing scream. He quickly cut it off, clapping a hand over her mouth, ironically, since she had been the one to warn him about noise every time before. She clenched her teeth and rode out the remaining waves of the orgasm, shuddering as he pressed her against the altar… but his hand did not leave her center. His fingers continued to probe and tease her, making her feel a pinnacle approaching again.

Abruptly, he withdrew his hand once again. She was going to cry out in disapproval once more, or attempt to, but somehow she knew in an instant that he wasn’t going to leave her hanging. He pulled down his breeches and smallclothes and bent over her, pressed against her from head to toe once more, his lips next to her ear. She also knew what he was going to say. There was a perfect verse, after all, that every human in Thedas knew.

_“Let the blade pass through the flesh.”_

They both muffled their gasps as he slid into her. He was struggling as much as she was with self-control this time, she noted with satisfaction, but she could not think about that for too long. In the next moment, he had mastered his urge to cry out, and he was gripping her hips tightly enough that it might bruise—but he could heal that if it happened. It was so tight a grip that she could not move, could not impale herself further on him, and her pleasure was completely under his control. That thought thrilled her, somehow. It was another instance of her rather enjoying the idea of not being at all in control for a change.

His motions suddenly seemed to fall short, or perhaps she was nearing her peak rapidly once more. “Harder,” she whispered suddenly.

He paused, eyes burning through her soul, as he gazed into her. For a tiny fraction of a second, the light vanished, leaving Anders’ brown eyes staring into hers, but then the Fade-light reasserted itself. With an aggressive movement, he thrust in her to the hilt, so hard that it shoved her further back on the altar. But it hit her sensitive spot deep inside her, sending a deep, quaking thrum throughout her whole body. He did it again. It seemed to her that stars began to pop behind her eyes.

Something popped like static charge under the altar, and she suddenly found that her hands were free. Instinctively, involuntarily, she flung them around his head, tugging on handfuls of his hair, startling him. He yelped as she sent a sudden charge of lightning across him.

“That’s enough of that,” he hissed. He removed his right hand from her hip and flicked it. She suddenly felt utterly helpless, and she realized that he had temporarily dispelled her magic with that wave. He had done it to people they had fought, but never to her before. Over in the corner, the light of her magical staff went out, leaving the little room illuminated exclusively by the spirit-light blazing from his eyes and flickering beneath his skin. He grabbed her hands and confined them under the altar once again. “Until that dissipates, you can’t do anything to me,” he said in an undertone. “You can only hope Justice shows you Mercy.”

She wanted to feel righteous indignation at his words, but instead, they only excited her further. A surge of pleasure—close, but not complete, alas—rushed through her body at the thought, and she muffled a gasp. She was vaguely aware that he removed his other hand from her hip and placed both of them instead on her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed. _This,_ she _was_ familiar with—

He pushed her down against the altar and inhaled sharply, readying himself and his magic. Bolts of white lightning arced from his palms, reflecting off the golden statue, rippling over her body and sending sharp jolts across her skin. That was it. A cry escaped her mouth as the growing wave of pleasure peaked, mingling with the magic and the raw elemental power that he was sending into her, a shattering climax that racked her repeatedly even as he had his own and gasped, collapsing on her.

Their bodies were damp with sweat and their thighs were slick with their own desire; and neither of them seemed able to move for several minutes. Instead they just lay sprawled across the altar, his fingers tangled in her hair. She whimpered for him to let her hands go, and instantly he lifted the binding spell so that she could thread her fingers through his hair as well. The heady scent of sex now filled the room and clung to their clothes, and the thought briefly occurred to her that they had better get out of the Chantry immediately rather than lingering. As the room grew dark, Caitlyn realized that Justice/Vengeance was relinquishing control. She fumbled for his staff, which was closer than hers, and cast a spell—his dispelling hex had faded now—to provide light again.

He started to chuckle, his face still buried in the place where her shoulder met her neck. “That was fantastic,” he said, reluctantly getting off her. His eyes were warm brown. Not a trace of the spirit was apparent.

“Yes, it was,” she said, embarrassed. She quickly buttoned up her clothes and pulled down the skirt. There wasn’t much else she could do to make herself presentable except smooth her hair. He was even more unkempt. They would just have to leave quickly and—hopefully—without being intercepted.

“That’s… actually all the business I think I have there,” he remarked. A curious look had come over his face, one of sudden horror and guilt, but it could not possibly have been about what he—they—had just done. He clearly was not ashamed in the slightest of _that._ No, it was apparently guilt over whatever he had originally come here to do.

They unbolted the doors and pushed them open a crack, just enough to gaze down the corridor. No one was there at the moment. “Let’s go,” she whispered. He did not argue. They grabbed their staves and took off.

* * *

He wanted to go to Darktown when they returned home, and she decided to accompany him as he entered the tunnels through the secret entrance in her cellar. He reached a spot overlooking the water and took off his pack. Opening it, he removed something, a strangely heavy parcel that was tightly bound in hazardous red.

“What is—” Caitlyn broke off the question as he brought his arm back and heaved the parcel as far into the harbor as he could. It hit the surface with a splash and sank beneath the waves.

“They made us learn the entire blasted Chant of Light in the Circle,” he muttered as they walked back into his clinic for privacy, “and one of my little rebellions was to learn the Dissonant Verses too. They made me think, actually. They made me realize that my instincts about how mages were treated were not just me. Teachings are not divinely sanctioned when people pick, choose, and _rewrite_ for political purposes.” He turned to her. “Have you ever read the Canticle of Maferath, love?”

“No,” she said. “I know about it, though….”

 _“Spite ate away all that was good, kind, and loving till nothing was left but the spite itself, coiled ’round my heart like a great worm,”_ he quoted. He took her hand and traced circles on it. _“_ _And in my darkest hour, I turned from Her and vowed that I would destroy Her.”_

A chill crept over Caitlyn as she realized what the package he had just thrown away had been and what he had meant to do. She brought her other hand to cover her gaping mouth.

“It probably would have made matters worse,” he acknowledged. “We need more public _sympathy_ for those like us… especially among people in power.”

She lifted her hand to his cheek and caressed it, concern in her eyes. “Don’t scare me like this again. If you feel that you can’t tell me about an idea… that I need ‘protection’ from the knowledge… then you shouldn’t do it.”

He contemplated that. “I _did_ have another idea occur to me for how to deal with Meredith and her supporters. Yes, yes, I’ll tell you.” He glanced around the clinic to make sure they were alone. “You remember that former Antivan Crow that we helped?”

A squeal of laughter escaped her. “The one who propositioned me right in front of you? Of course. I also remember your response to it.”

“He owes us for that,” Anders remarked, the white light of Justice momentarily flashing in his eyes as he made that assertion, “and I think I know exactly how he can repay the debt.”

She took his hand again.

He smirked. _“Her touch was like fire that did not burn. And by Her touch, I was made pure again.”_

She glanced aside as her face flushed with heat. “No you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he agreed. “Fortunately for both of us.”


End file.
